


For You

by Trojie



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Angst, BDSM, M/M, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-22
Updated: 2010-07-22
Packaged: 2017-10-10 17:52:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/102466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boys spend a night in Bernstead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For You

**Author's Note:**

> Bondage, kink. Um. It's porn. We make no excuses. If anyone knows where Trojie's brain is, please let us know. Beta-read by Bridget.

The fire crackles low in the grate as Edmund draws his lips slowly over Caspian's arm. The other king slumbers peacefully, for now. Somehow, Edmund never finds himself following Caspian into slumber until long after the fire has died and the room has chilled. Having someone fall asleep in his arms is so new, he still wakes up in a panic each morning, fearing to find Caspian gone in the night.

For now, however, Caspian is still most definitely there. Edmund draws one gentle finger along the length of his arm, revelling in the feel of skin below his fingers. There is something incredibly tempting about Caspian's skin, warm and soft in the dark, delicate and moving with the rhythm of his heartbeat at elbow and at wrist, and then sharp calluses, hard and rough under Edmund's fingers, reminders of battles fought and hours of practice. Or, to put it another way, of passion and of patience. Dedication. Skill and deliberation. Edmund lifts Caspian's hand, brings first thumb and then finger after finger to his mouth, to kiss and warm as gently as possible, feeling that pulse flutter and speed under his thumb, as Caspian, voice rich with sleep, mumbles or moans.

'Trouble sleeping?' the young king asks sleepily, not drawing his hand away. Edmund makes a small noise of assent, and continues his ministrations. The beat in the pad of Caspian's thumb is too tempting to ignore and so he follows it to his wrist, licking and carefully testing with teeth, feeling Caspian come more and more awake as he finds a soft, pulsing pathway past elbow and up, across the broad, flat expanse of shoulder, kissing into the hollow of throat and neck, feeling blood rush and pound and boom like surf on the shore, and just when he thinks to move up further, he finds himself caught between two vice-like hands and pulled up. Caspian settles a leg heavily across both of Edmund's, takes Edmund's face in his hands and growls 'Tease.'

'I'm sure I don't know what you mean,' Edmund protests, quirking an eyebrow. 'Is a king not allowed to familiarise himself with the bodies of his subjects?'

That's enough to get Caspian's attention, and he opens his eyes fully, before parting his lips to speak and then thinking the better of it. Instead, he rolls over, pinning Edmund's hands above his head and fixing him with a steely glare.

'Subjects?'

Edmund says nothing, doesn't even attempt to wriggle free. Enjoys instead the feeling of purpose in Caspian's body. He will never be able to admit to anyone that he likes this, likes Caspian's reactions when he pushes just that little too far. Likes being less than in charge.

'I don't know whether or not I should be more offended by the plural or by the implication that I'm your subject,' murmurs Caspian, lips and teeth finding the edge of Edmund's ear, one arm lying heavy over Edmund's shoulder to hold his wrists in place while the other slides far too softly down his side. Edmund lets out a moan, hearing the ragged edge in his own voice and not caring.

He cares more when Caspian sits up, removing his weight from Edmund's body, and his hand from Edmund's wrists.

'Are you enjoying yourself?' Caspian asks, rolling his hips against Edmund's. Edmund doesn't move, keeps his wrists above his head, his eyes closed. Caspian sighs, somewhere above him. 'Are we still doing this?' he asks. His voice cracks, and Edmund knows he's remembering.

They have been doing this ever since that first night in Bernstead, when they'd drunk too much and lost too many items of clothing in some dreadful card game and had escorted each other to their respective rooms and Caspian had found the livid marks of slaver's manacles on Edmund's wrists. Had roared something, groped for a sword he didn't wear, meant to rush to the docks and find Pug and damn every law he'd made about summarily killing defenceless men, when he'd suddenly come to his senses and realised that he had Edmund up against a bedpost, tiny moans breaking through his breathing, and one hand hard on Edmund's wrists, and that those two things were related, and then it had dissolved into kissing, and into other things.

There are strips of a sheet that the maids are no doubt going to miss when they came to clean up after their guests, probably going to gossip about as well, beside the bed, and Edmund knows he only has to wait. Caspian always takes time to realise that they want the same thing.

Another sigh and a movement indicates that the wait won't be long.

The first touch of the linen against his pulse always makes the breath come faster in Edmund's chest, makes his eyes flicker open, but it's the slow, careful, deliberate way Caspian winds it there, binding it and sealing it with kisses to everywhere sensitive and pale and tissue-soft that makes heat flow through Edmund's body. He wraps it around the bedpost last of all, and there's both worry and lust in his eyes. He is as careful at this as he is with all things that he does. It makes Edmund burn with impatience.

'I don't like this, you know,' says Caspian thickly, putting to use knots he's learnt for different reasons. 'It isn't right.'

'You do like it,' says Edmund contrarily, lifting his hips, rolling into Caspian's body. 'You like it because I like it.' He keeps moving, keeps searching for friction, arching off the bed as much as he can with his arms behind his head, knowing the effect it has on Caspian and needing it, wanting it, wanting him to _react_.

Caspian's breath catches, rasps. His hands trace gently down Edmund's arms, frame Edmund's face. 'I'd do anything for you,' he says raggedly. 'Anything at all.'

'Do _this_ for me, then,' says Edmund roughly. 'It's not wrong, Caspian, it's between you and me, there's no-one else here, _please_ ...'

'Aslan help me,' says Caspian then, painfully low, and he leans in, kissing Edmund softly, sweetly, slowly. Edmund will have none of it, pushes up and lets his mouth fall open, teeth scraping the edge of Caspian's lip.

'_Please_,' he moans.

That does it. Caspian's control, never great, frays with that one word. In one more breath Edmund gets his wish, gets that glorious body arching above him once more, knee hot between his thigh and Caspian's hands and mouth all over him, everywhere at once.

His arms are starting to hurt now, and he groans as Caspian draws warm fingers down his overstretched muscles, down following the curve of his heaving chest, finding the jut of his hipbones. They fell asleep naked and entangled, and the natural feel of skin on skin, something that normally soothes Edmund, anchors him, reminds him that there are some times he can relax, is now nothing but a soft and terrible torture. Sweat is starting to form and it makes the movement between them, especially in tender places, sticky and uncomfortable, but the feel of it is intoxicating coupled with the slow burn of his arms and Caspian's teeth on his neck. They are moving together now - no longer sliding and sticking, instead Edmund has one leg wrapped around Caspian's as much as he can and they press and pull and kiss and bite and there's so much _power_ in Caspian, all twisted up and hidden, and Edmund loves that what it takes to let it out is nothing but a strip of linen, a moan, a whispered entreaty. No foreign king ever got Caspian the Tenth to lose his composure, not on the battlefield, never since Miraz's death. Never. But Edmund can bring him out of it, can let him have what he wants, because it is what he wants too.

No-one ever asks a king if they wanted it, not really. No-one ever asks a king, even a boy-king, if they want their emotions to govern life and death for countless hundreds. Is it any wonder Edmund had a reputation for being cold? Is it any wonder Caspian effectively ran away to sea?

Edmund can feel it now, thrumming through Caspian's body, feel the tightness in him as he clutches at Edmund, see the wildness in his brown eyes.

'Give it to me,' he whispers, pulling at his bonds, wrapping his legs ever tighter against Caspian's sweat-slick skin, trying anything to get closer. 'Come on, Caspian,' he coaxes. 'Come on. For me. Please.'

And Caspian's eyes roll and he suddenly pushes down, _grinds_, with a whimper and a whispered prayer and suddenly there's hot wetness but it's Caspian's face, unbelieving, taut and desperate, that sends Edmund over the edge, and he cannot help but let out a gasp. It's sudden and harsh and he yanks at his wrists in surprise. There'll be marks there in the morning, he knows.

Afterwards, Caspian's face is buried in Edmund's shoulder. Edmund knows he's feeling guilty, despite there being no reason for it. Edmund talked him into it, after all. But Caspian hates to lose his control.

'Caspian,' Edmund says, gently, moving his shoulder, trying to get the other king to look at him. 'It's alright.'

'I'm burning those rags in the morning,' says Caspian, without looking at him. He starts to undo the ties that fasten Edmund down, his movements jerky, angry. 'Never again. I can't ... I cannot keep doing this, Edmund.'

'I want it.'

'That doesn't ... Edmund, don't you ...' Caspian stops, takes a breath. Starts again. 'I don't like feeling like I'm forcing you.'

'Does it seem like I'm being forced when I'm begging you?' asks Edmund, as the cloth unwinds.

'I was on a visit once, to Calormen,' says Caspian, looking away. 'They offered me a slave boy. And I ... I sent him away, but ... afterwards, I thought about it, and ... Edmund, I cannot, I _will not_ be like that. Whether you want it or not. It starts with willingness, but where will it end?'

'Where it always ends. Satisfaction.'

'And when you leave?' Caspian's voice cracks again. 'There will be someone after you - I made a vow to take a wife. You do not understand, Edmund. I _cannot_ want this. Please. Never again.'

We leave the Lone Islands tomorrow, Edmund wants to say. There'll be no more opportunities anyway. But he knows that Caspian knows this. It's for show. Caspian has to tell himself that he's stopping. He has to make the decision, not have it made for him.

Edmund cuddles his face into Caspian's neck. 'I won't ask you to again,' he promises, flexing his shoulders as first the right arm, then the left comes free.

'Please,' says Caspian, plaintively.

Edmund settles his arms around Caspian's shoulders. 'Anything for you,' he says.


End file.
